


Along the Way

by Greyele



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Cursed Netflix, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lancelot - Freeform, My First AO3 Post, Percival - Freeform, Romance, The Weeping Monk - Freeform, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greyele/pseuds/Greyele
Summary: The Weeping Monk has been badly injured in his fight with the Trinity Guard so Squirrel brings him to a safe place.
Relationships: The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfiction.

She waited in the dark, staring silently along the path to the road. It had been a warm day but the evening brought a chill that heralded the approach of Autumn. She wrapped her arms around herself as she strained her ears for any sound of the oncoming visitors. The birds had initially alerted her, waking from their little slumbers to come *tap tap tap* on her window with a message. Luckily it was fairly early in the night and she had still been awake and dressed, and so was able to take the extra few minutes to prepare the needed space in the hidden cellar. 

Emma's gift of communication with animals was a rarity among the fey. It came to her easily - flashing images in her mind coupled with a range of emotions to create a comprehensive narrative Emma could understand as clearly as spoken word. She had always delighted in it, especially as a child. Unfortunately her gift had not been well received amongst the other fey in her village and she'd grown up being generally treated as an outcast. Feeling that she had no real place among the fey, and certainly none in the world of men, she had eventually settled down in a secluded patch of the wilds outside of Hawksbridge and began building a reputation locally as a healer. These days the townsfolk, soldiers, and even Red Paladins would make the trip a few miles into the woods to her hidden meadow, seeking out her cures for their many ailments. Most of her administrations, solutions, poultices, etc. held more than a hint of fey healing, but in the end they did tend to work so the locals turned a bit of a blind eye and gave her steady business. 

However, unbeknownst to any of them, her cozy little cottage had doubled as a stop along the secret fey pipeline to Nemos for some years now. Beneath the weathered blue floorboards lay a moderately sized cave system that had several dormitory sized caverns and even an underground hot spring where one could comfortably bathe. Whoever had originally built the cottage had obviously done so specifically because of the access to these caves. Even before Emma moved in, the thick tree-lined meadow was a place seemingly tailor made for hiding. Indeed it had taken her about a year and a half of living and working out of the cottage for her to notice the subtle differences in the floorboards at the center of the main room. After discovering the trap door and exploring a bit in the caves below, Emma had enthusiastically reached out to her contacts within The Resistance. It wasn't long before the handful of caverns were each assigned a purpose: beds were brought in for the dormitory, a healer's room was slowly stocked with just about everything needed to treat injured refugees, and there was a small kitchen fitted with the necessities. Each "room" sported a fireplace carved into the wall, and each fireplace had a chimney which connected to the main chimney for the house upstairs so the smoke from 3 or 4 extra fires could escape unnoticed. Every day Emma sent out a prayer of thanks to whoever had created this perfect space. It was sorely needed. 

After a dozen or so minutes of nothing more than the familiar sounds of a nighttime forest, Emma finally heard the clip-clop of a horse's slow approach. She vaguely knew what to expect. The birds had explained in their own flighty, chirrupy way that there were two riders on a dark horse: one was a local boy they recognized as her spirited little friend, Squirrel - a frequent visitor to the meadow - and the other a cloaked man who was quite badly injured from what they could tell. She shifted her weight as she continued to stare, eyes alert for any sign of movement. 

Suddenly the dark horse and its riders seemed to melt out of the black of the night behind them."Emma! Please, he needs help. He's hurt bad." Squirrel called to her as the horse stepped into the soft light that spilled from the open cottage door. He hopped down and the cloaked man swayed dangerously in the saddle, the boy having been most of what was keeping him upright at all. 

"Yes, I can see that," she murmured almost to herself as she reached up to steady the man. He flinched away from her so violently that he almost toppled over the other side of the horse. Emma paused and narrowed her eyes trying to peer into the hood. She put on her most soothing voice, "It's alright, sir, please let me help you off the horse. It won't do for you to fall. I am a healer and Squirrel has brought you to a safe place. No one will hurt you here." The man's face remained hidden in shadow as he sat motionless astride the stallion. The more she took him in, the more she began to feel something was off. The man, injured though he was, still emanated a quiet strength and a danger she couldn't quite put a finger on. 

Emma glanced at Squirrel, apprehension flooding her features, but the boy's face hardened and he walked back up to the man. Reaching up he placed a small hand on his calf, "It's okay, Lancelot, Emma is a good healer and a kind person. She will help us!" His words of reassurance did nothing to relax the rider. 

The more she stared at the cloaked figure, the more persistent was the nagging sensation that he was something to fear. "Squirrel... who is this?" At her words the man finally raised his hooded face so it would catch the light from the open door and looked directly at her. Emma gasped, her insides immediately frozen in deep fear. She yanked Squirrel back by his tunic and all but threw him behind her as she produced a dagger from beneath her apron. "What the fuck, Squirrel!" she yelled, "That's the fucking Weeping Monk! What are you thinking bringing a wolf into the sheep's den?!" Terror threatened to overwhelm her and she struggled to keep control until she could get them to safety. Her mind reeled. Truthfully she knew there was no safety to be had when in this close proximity to the Paladins' deadliest weapon. 

Squirrel twisted in her grasp and managed to push himself away from her, running up to defend the still seated monk. "NO! He saved me! He's not evil, he's my friend and he needs help. You said you'd always be here if I needed help! You promised!" desperation and hurt were apparent in the boy's raised voice. Emma stared open mouthed at the unexpected outburst, and the determined young fey boy stared right back. "Lancelot won't hurt you," he finished quietly. 

"Lancelot?!" Her gaze whipped from boy to monk, monk to boy, trying to make sense of the situation. However, before she had a chance to wrap her mind around any of it the monk sagged and fell from the saddle, landing hard on the dry dirt path. Emma's healer's instincts took over and in a flash she was kneeling by his side. His ash stained eyes stared up at her with an emotionless expression while it dawned on her what she had done and she froze again right above him. Taking a deep breath she centered herself and met his gaze. "I am a healer. I will help you... if you don't kill me." He stared. "Will you kill me?" It was a ridiculous question. He continued to stare. A tense silence grew between them for a few moments, and Emma was about to start backing away, when he finally responded. "No, I will not kill you." The words were barely a whisper. Emma examined his face a little longer, searching for any hint of what the monk may be thinking, but he was utterly unreadable so she gave up. "We need to get you inside," she grunted as she snaked her arms up under his and yanked him to his feet in one fluid motion. The monk exhaled loudly, grimacing in pain, but she found she didn't necessarily mind his discomfort in this moment. How many lives had been taken, ruined, tortured out of existence at his hands? Emma figured a little extra discomfort before she healed him maybe wasn't the worst thing. She turned to Squirrel, suddenly all business. "Are you injured?"

"No," the boy responded, "Lancelot saved me." 

"Good. Okay, I need you to do some things for me." He straightened importantly, "I need you to take this horse to the stable out back. There is one free stall out of the three. I need you to lay down some hay and grab some oats for the horse-"

"Goliath," Squirrel interrupted.

"-alright, for Goliath. Get him some water, take off his tack, brush him down, and get him ready for bed like the other horses. Make him as comfortable as possible, as quickly as possible, and then bring the tack back to the house. Can you do all of this?" The boy nodded enthusiastically and began leading the large horse around the back of the cottage. Emma cocked her head and looked up at the monk leaning on her right shoulder. "You really won't harm me or the boy?" 

He stiffened slightly but immediately hissed and relaxed his weight against her again when his broken body protested. "No I will not hurt you, and I do not harm children." Emma scoffed at that last statement but began to move in the direction of the house anyway. She knew she was absolutely mad choosing to bring this killer into her home, it's not like she could trust his word that he wouldn't harm her, but it was either this or actively and knowingly leaving him to die outside. Therefore it was no real choice at all. 

Once inside she leaned the wounded monk against a table for a second so she could reach down and place her key into the barely detectable keyhole hidden in a knot in one of the floorboards. The trap door seemed to appear out of nothing and Emma half carried her terrifying charge down the short ramp into the secret caves. It wasn't lost on her that she was effectively wiping this crucial stop off the pipeline's map. She had willingly brought the enemy here and exposed one of the fey's last remaining sanctuaries. The consequences of this action would likely be severe but there was no use dwelling on it now. What was done was done, no matter how stupid. 

As lightly as she could she deposited the monk - Lancelot - onto one of the beds in the healing hall. She had to help him pull his legs over the side before she could leave him to adjust himself into as comfortable a position as he could manage. His hard eyes followed Emma as she quickly strode around the room gathering her supplies. She walked over to the fire she'd set earlier and pushed the tea kettle further over the flames, she added herbs to the kettle, collected several bottles from a crowded shelf and set them next to a pile of bandages on a small table next to his bed, poured some of the now warm and fragrant water from the kettle into a large bowl, selected specific herbs and plants from a robust collection on the far wall, began to grind some together in a mortar and pestle.. all this while never once fully turning her back to him. 

"You fear me." It wasn't a question, just him stating a fact. A fact that sounded as if it all but bored him. 

Emma froze mid-grind, her breath catching in her throat, before slowly turning her head to face him. His icy blue eyes burned into her from beneath his hood. She swallowed, "yes." 

"I am unarmed," he said flatly, lifting his arms off the bed and holding them outward to emphasize the point. 

Emma set down the mortar and pestle, grabbed a small towel and the bowl of warm water, and crossed the room to him, placing the items on the edge of the small table. At first she just stood there next to his bed as if gathering herself, then she cautiously reached out her hands to push back his hood. He tensed but didn't move to stop her. "That hardly makes you any less lethal," she pointed out as she settled the grey fabric onto his shoulders. She could see him now, and he really was a mess. His curly hair was pulled up into a bun at the back of his head and dried blood caked over half of it, the red/brown of the ashen tears streaking down his angular face was mixed with the blood from several cuts and gashes, a shadow of facial hair surrounded chapped lips above a busted chin. However, beneath all that grime Emma could see that he was fairly young, probably around her age, and strikingly handsome, though admitting that last part to herself didn't feel great. She wet a corner of the towel and slowly brought it up to a particularly nasty injury on his left brow. 

He didn't flinch as she began cleaning up his face, pain was an old friend to the Weeping Monk. "Why are you helping me even if I frighten you?" his voice was low and gravelly.

She leaned back a little and her eyes searched his face. "I trust Squirrel. The way he is with you.. he isn't like that with most people. He trusts you. I don't know yet if that trust is misplaced but you did apparently save his life which isn't nothing. Plus I'm a healer and that's just what healers do. We help without judgement or discrimination." Emma sighed and put the towel down, "speaking of Squirrel, I'd better go give him a hand now that I can see you're fairly stable." She turned away from the monk and had started towards the trapdoor when his words stopped her once again. 

"I give you my word that I will not harm either of you." The way he said it was so sincere, it was the first time she'd been able to discern any emotion from him at all. 

Emma looked back, considering him for a long moment and then nodded once, "alright." She turned and made it to the bottom of the ramp before realizing she's been so enthralled by the mysterious monk that she'd almost overlooked a crucial detail. His gaze hadn't wavered when she spun around, "have I been correct to assume that someone will be looking for you?"

"Yes." he replied simply. 

"How long?" 

"I do not know." 

Emma stepped over to one of the cabinets and pulled out a small bucket of paint and a paint brush before finally heading up the ramp. She gave Lancelot one last, hard look from the doorway, “don't go anywhere," she ordered. 

Lancelot lifted his arms outward and shakily motioned to his battered self, "as you wish."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you everyone for the feedback! Now I truly understand how much it means to authors and all the love has me positively beaming. I hope y'all like this chapter as well!

Out in the stable Emma met Squirrel just as he was collecting the tack. Goliath was fully brushed and relaxed with his head in a bucket of oats. “You did a fantastic job, Squirrel, thank you. Can you carry all that back to the house by yourself?" The boy nodded, tottering a bit under the weight of the leather. Emma couldn't help giving him an amused smile as she watched him head out the door. "I left the trap door wide open so you can't miss it. Lancelot is waiting for you down the ramp and to the left. I'll bring the saddle pads back with me when I'm finished, I wont be long." Squirrel gave her a "hmmf" of acknowledgement as he weaved through the yard stubbornly carrying his burden. 

Chuckling to herself she turned from the door to examine the horse. He truly was a gorgeous and powerful beast, with large, intelligent eyes that studied her as she stepped closer to him. "Easy now, Goliath, you're a pretty boy, aren't you? Yes, such a big and pretty boy you are," she cooed at him. A soft muzzle met her words and she giggled as he chuffed in her face, tickling her nose with his lips. Of course no animal needed her spoken words, but she’d mostly found that they enjoyed the sounds all the same. She purred and clucked at him in a low voice, trailing her hands appreciatively along the length of his muscular body before returning to scratch behind his ears. He gazed at her through a heavy lidded eye as she explained to him what she needed to do. 

A short time later she was walking back down the little ramp into the caves, dropping the saddle pads with the rest of the tack, and returning the bucket of paint to its cabinet. “Whoever is seeking ‘The Weeping Monk’ will be alert for his all black horse as well. Who they may not recognize is a black horse with a thin white blaze down his handsome nose and three white socks." She said in response to the boys’ questioning looks. In fact, Emma thought herself quite clever for having solved this issue. Not a single drop of paint had fallen into the hay to betray her as she’d worked on Goliath, and a wooden chair with a fresh white coat had already been drying just outside the barn to account for the smell. Neat and tidy. Lancelot cocked an eyebrow at her explanation in what she took as an almost impressed sort of look. Mmhmm. 

*******

Lancelot watched the fey healer with renewed interest. She seemed fairly accustomed to hiding those who needed to be hidden and he was impressed at her detailed and efficient approach. As soon as she had answered their unspoken query she had disappeared back up the ramp in a twirl of her long, dark hair as if just remembering something vital. There was some nondescript scraping and bumping above their heads and a few moments later she returned, arms laden with miscellaneous foods. He spared a glance for the boy standing at his elbow and, sure enough, Percival’s eyes were wide and shining as if he’d never seen anything more wonderful. Looking back he saw that the healer’s smile had widened at the look on the hungry youth’s face and she laid out the small feast on a bench with a flourish. 

“I’ll take the time to cook you up a proper meal tomorrow but for now here’s some bread, roasted mushrooms and potatoes, fruits, and cheeses I had ready in the upstairs kitchen.” She gestured for Percival to help himself before filling another small plate with a bit of everything and offering it to Lancelot. He stared at the plate and then at her. The questions, fears, and hesitations were written all over her sun-kissed face. In that moment it became clear that the offer was more than just that of dinner - it was her willing kindness she was holding out to him, and she didn’t know whether he would accept, nor what it meant if he did or he didn’t. Not breaking eye-contact he slowly reached out and took the plate, his fingers unintentionally brushing across hers ever so slightly as he did so. To his surprise he caught a blush rising to her cheeks before she quickly turned her attention to where Percival was gorging himself. Her face softened perceptibly at the sight of the boy displaying the dining manners of an actual wild pig. 

“As soon as you’re finished eating I’ll clean you both up a bit and address what wounds need addressing, and then you can get some sleep. I know you must be a few steps beyond exhausted and the hour has grown very late.” As if on cue Percival’s eyes began to droop and his chewing slowed a bit as an overly full stomach and the events of the past few days caught up with him. Immediately the healer swooped in on the boy, “Not yet, my intrepid little friend! Let me at least check you over and clean up those cuts on your face before we lose you to your dreams.” She grabbed another small towel, dipped it in the bowl of herbed water, and began her work. Lancelot continued to watch her as he chewed on a bit of bread. He didn’t notice it, but he had genuinely begun to relax.. just a little. 

********

Emma was mortified when she felt herself blush at his unexpected touch and she’d swiftly turned all of her attentions to Squirrel hoping the monk hadn’t noticed. The boy couldn’t swallow the food in his mouth fast enough in his haste to shove more in. Her heart swelled and she almost laughed out loud at the sight, she loved that vivacious little goofball so much. When word had reached her about the sacking of his village she’d been sick with the thought of her young friend’s fate. Having him show up here with few physical injuries had been a relief, despite his current company. After a few minutes he’d started to nod off mid-bite and she sprung into action to get him cleaned up before he fully passed out. In the end she had managed to wipe down what cuts she could see on his face and do a light check for any other injuries before the boy had fallen completely asleep in her arms. She carried him to one of the beds she’d made up earlier in the evening and tucked him in, planting a light kiss on his forehead before straightening up and turning to face her other charge. 

As always, the monk was watching her. “You’re good with him,” he observed. 

“I know him fairly well, he’s been coming ‘round here to bug me almost his whole life.” She crossed back to where Lancelot lay propped up on the sickbed and set to work again cleaning the blood from his brow, being careful not to wipe at the ashen tears. “His mother fell desperately ill one winter when he was very small and he was sent to me by his father for medicine. I gave him what she needed along with some cookies I’d recently baked for being such a brave traveller and for helping his mum. The treats seemed to seal the deal and he started to come by at least once a month to run around under my feet while I worked. I heard later that his mum had passed away from her illness in the early spring. It sort of made sense to me then why he visited me so often.” Emma paused and let her gaze fall on the peacefully sleeping boy, “I haven’t asked him but I assume his father was killed in that raid on Dewdenn.” Unwittingly her eyes flicked to the monk’s as she said this but for once he wasn’t looking straight at her and she was relieved. There were so many questions but now was not the time for them. She finished cleaning his minced eyebrow and stepped back, “okay then, that’s finished. I’m going to need you to take off your cloak and tunic so I can see what’s really going on.” Her voice was as professional as ever but underneath it she’d begun to sweat. Asking The Weeping Monk to strip half naked was not like asking her other patients and she was nervous. 

At first he looked like he was going to refuse but then he was unclasping the trademark cloak and letting it fall onto the bed behind him. Next he sat up straight, untucked his tunic from his waste, and slowly began pulling it off. The shirt stuck to his back like it was glued there and he had to take care not to rip the fabric or his skin as they parted. Emma couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped her lips - the front of his shirt was ripped in places and speckled with not a few drops of blood, but the back was just short of saturated. She took care to fix her expression before taking the item from him and laying it aside. When she turned around to examine him she was genuinely shocked at the brutality of his injuries. How was he mobile? It was a miracle to her that he was even conscious. Dark blue/black spots bloomed all over his front and sides, most with small rivulets of blood running from little holes dotted within the bruising. There were two significant gashes, one over the ribs on his left side and one at the hip on his right. The pain must have been astronomical. “What happened to you?” The question slipped out of its own accord and she glanced quickly up at his face feeling slightly embarrassed for having asked it. Most people weren’t ready to relive whatever trauma had led them to one of her sickbeds and she had always made a point not to inquire. 

His lips tightened but he answered in his low voice, “Trinity Guard.” 

Emma’s eyes went wide. So many questions…. but no, it was time to heal not to interrogate. As gently as possible she began cleaning the blood from what she now knew to be the strikes of the Trinity Guard’s infamous Morning Stars. When her hands reached a spot directly on his ribs she saw his jaw tighten and an eye twitch, the only indication that this area was particularly sore. “Looks like you’ve got a few broken ribs. You’ll need to be careful and stay as immobile as you can while they heal.” He nodded almost imperceptibly to acknowledge he’d heard her and she moved on to the large gash on his left side. “I wish I’d gotten to you sooner. This needs stitches but it’s already started healing so I hesitate to do anything more than clean it out and apply a poultice. This will hurt a bit, I’m sorry.” The apology slipped out at the end as a force of habit but Emma was surprised to find that she actually meant it. She genuinely felt bad for the pain she was causing the weeping monk. What was wrong with her? 

********

Lancelot sat as still as stone. Her hands were all over him but they were gentle and deliberate in their movements. Even so, he was thoroughly unused to being touched and he didn’t know how to interpret the reactions it threatened to pull from him. Each time one of her small, thin fingers slipped beyond the cloth and hit his bare flesh it was like a lightening bolt ran through his body. It wasn’t intentional, he knew, but the effect was alarming. He decided to focus on the pain while she extracted dirt and debris from the large cut on his side. Pain was familiar, pain was an oasis from his sin, pain was cleansing. Emma was very skilled and seemingly unfazed by the intimate contact which helped Lancelot to manage his own confusion. However when she moved down to work on the gash at his hip his focus was drawn back to the present situation with a snap. He sucked in a breath as his fists tightened, his jaw clenched so hard he was amazed his teeth didn’t burst from the pressure. She was studiously avoiding his gaze for this part, fixating on the wound with all her might and taking the utmost care to only touch precisely where she needed to. He was avoiding looking at her as well or he might have noticed the blush creeping unbidden into her cheeks. Several minutes passed when you could have cut the tension in the room with a blade but then the wound was clean, the poultice applied, and it was over. She stood and mercifully faced away from him, busying herself with changing the water and getting a new towel. He let out a long, slow breath and tried to steady his wildly beating heart. Lancelot knew his mutilated back was next on her list and the thought did nothing to reassure him.

********

Emma tried to look busy while she fought to regain control of herself. She was used to dealing with shirtless people, both male and female. It was part of being a healer and had never made her flustered before. But something about the monk had utterly shaken her resolution. Heat rose to her face and flowed unchecked through her veins as she tried to concentrate on the task at hand rather than the goosebumps she could see covering his pale skin, the muscles tightening and releasing just under the surface, the rise and fall of his chest, his breath quickening ever so slightly… altogether it made her head buzz, and her heart was thudding so loud she had almost no doubt he could hear it from across the room. Steady breaths, steady breaths, she thought to herself over and over until she felt a fraction more sane. When she decided she was controlled enough she returned to his side and asked him to lean forward in order to give her access to whatever grievous wounds had dyed his shirt with blood. He noticeably hesitated this time, eyes staring straight ahead and unfocused. When he finally did as she had bid him, the reason for his reluctance was unmistakable. His entire back was laced with cuts, some long healed scars, some scabbed over, some still seeping. The heat she was feeling now was no longer of her own make, it radiated off this part of his body in angry waves. Emma was horrified. 

“Oh, Lancelot, who did this to you?” she cried softly, not really expecting an answer. He didn’t give her one. Gathering herself once more she took a seat on the very edge of the bed and got to work. It was almost an hour before she was finished administering to each lash. For lashes they were and lashes she knew them to be. From who’s whip? She could only hazard an educated guess. With the number of cuts, and their varied states of healing, it had to have been The Church and it had to have been happening most of his life. Suddenly when she looked at him she no longer saw a ruthless killer who’s personal hunger for fey blood was an unquenchable thing. She saw a tortured man who had been a tortured boy and she felt herself awash with sympathy. Emma reached up and placed her hand on his shoulder, lightly applying pressure to push him back down onto the bed. He complied without a fuss but still his eyes looked straight ahead, his face as blank as ever. She didn’t know precisely why, but she wished he would look at her. 

“I’m finished, Lancelot,” her voice was soft and full of tenderness, “all you need now is time and rest.” She stood and moved to an old dresser by Squirrel’s bed, opening a drawer and pulling out a clean tunic before walking back across the room and placing it on the small table nearest to him. He looked almost small, almost breakable lying there. “I keep spare clothing in several sizes for occasions such as this. I believe you’re going to need it, I don’t think yours is salvageable, unfortunately.” Bending down she reached under the bed and produced a blanket and an extra pillow. “Try to get some sleep for now. I’ll alert you if anyone is coming up the road, you’ll have proper warning I promise. You’re safe here and I’ll take care of everything, relax if you can.” With one last look at him she turned to head back up the ramp, but suddenly his hand shot out and he was lightly yet firmly cuffing her wrist. She looked down, initially startled, but then raised her large green eyes to find his weeping blue ones. 

“Thank you.” Was all he said and then his hand dropped back onto the bed and his eyes were closed.

Once upstairs and alone, Emma leaned heavily against the nearest wall, and released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some Trigger Warnings for this chapter - violence, non-con, and very nearly rape. 
> 
> It's the only time this sort of thing will appear in this story and I want to make sure everyone knows what they're getting into before they start it.

Lancelot listened to her retreating footsteps until he was sure she was back in the main house before opening his eyes. She’d said his name. Hearing it fall so sweetly from her lips was like seeing the first light of a clear spring morning. It felt as if she now saw *him* rather than just ‘The Weeping Monk’. Then a realization hit him like an arrow to the gut: he is Lancelot - formerly known as The Weeping Monk, The Grey Monk, the one who cries, the sharpest blade of the Red Paladins - but now, or once again, he was simply Lancelot. He sat quietly and listened to Percival’s steady, rhythmic breathing while a war raged inside his head. Guilt, self-loathing, confusion, anger, and some other emotions he’d spent years repressing were roiling just beneath his expressionless mask. For the first time in a long, long time he lacked guidance. Under Father Carden he had always known where he stood, what was expected of him. There were orders to follow and a righteous cause he could devote his life to. Now he was uncertain where he stood or what was to become of him. Would he go on to join the fey? Emma and Percival had accepted him, but would the rest of the fey be as willing to look away from his heinous deeds against their people and let him in? Their Green Knight had said “all fey are brothers” but did that sentiment really extend all the way to the monster he knew himself to be? He’d captured their Green Knight and delivered him to a drawn out and painful end. Did he even deserve a shot at redemption after all he had done? Was this redemption, or was he turning to sin? These thoughts and more ran on a brutal loop through his mind for a couple of hours before the trap door was abruptly ripped open and Emma appeared looking tired and extremely on edge. 

“They’re coming,” she said hurriedly, “a group of Red Paladins riding up the road. They’ll be here in roughly ten minutes.” Her wide green eyes betrayed the true depth of her fear as she continued, “you must be totally silent no matter what, they cannot find you or this place or we will all burn. My interactions with the local Paladins have generally been amiable over the years but we both know that can change in an instant, especially if they think I’m hiding something. Please, Lancelot, no matter what happens, no matter what you hear, you must. stay. silent.” Her gaze flicked to the sleeping boy and then back to him, “keep him quiet if he wakes, hold your hand over his mouth if you have to, just make sure not one sound floats up through those floorboards. No matter what. Please do this.” Her intensity was alarming and he nodded to indicate he would comply. She crossed the room in rapid strides and handed him a small key. “I’m going to lock the trap door after I leave. You are not a prisoner, it’s just an extra layer of protection between you two and them. This key is so that if something happens and I cannot come back to you, you are not trapped down here indefinitely.” For the span of a few breaths they just looked at each other, the gravity of the situation laying heavy between them, then she boldly grabbed his hand and gave it a soft squeeze before disappearing back up into the main house. The trap door shut with a muffled thud, the lock clicked, and that was it. The only thing for him to do now was wait. He looked down at his hand, still tingling from her reassuring touch, before he slowly lifted himself off the bed and moved to a chair within arm’s reach of Percival’s oblivious form. Icy blue eyes looked upward and he began to wait. 

*********

Emma shifted a chair and a small rug so that they were casually situated over half the hidden door and then set to collecting herself. She couldn’t be so obviously agitated when The Paladins arrived, she needed to have that fresh-out-of-sleep confusion to define her features. It seemed like both forever and no time at all when the pounding at the front door finally came. 

“Open up! Open up now in the name of The Church!” Barked a voice on the other side. Taking a deep breath Emma lit the lantern she’d been holding in her lap, mussed the back of her hair a bit more, and stepped out of the bedroom. This was it. 

She unhooked the latch and cracked the front door while yawning dramatically. “Wasshappenin?” she slurred sleepily before being thrown back when the door was forced wide. Four Red Paladins barged into the cottage and immediately began to rip the place apart. Emma allowed herself to be much more alert now and she whirled on the brothers, all of whom she’d recognized as local. Two of them, Brother Ronan and Brother Saarthis, were even semi-regular customers of hers. “How dare you force your way into my home in the early hours without cause or explanation! What is the meaning of this? I demand answers!” She hollered at them in an authoritative tone, standing in the entryway with her hands on her hips. She decided she could be indignant, as far as they knew she had nothing to hide. Her mouth had fixed itself to spew another round of verbal condemnation when she was cut off by a deceptively velvety voice flowing in from the open doorway behind her. Her mouth went dry. 

“Please excuse our intrusion, madam healer, but we are hunting for a couple of fugitives: a man and a fey boy.” The hairs on Emma’s neck stood up as she reluctantly turned to meet the soft, boyish face of Brother Young, the head of their local contingent of Red Paladins. She knew him to be a perilous and cruel man responsible for a number of particularly abhorrent acts of violence against unfortunate fey. Even his brothers stepped carefully around this one. He was as clever as he was sadistic, and his presence here sent ice running through her veins. They had met a couple of times before and Emma had always gotten the impression that he could see right through her. Like he was simply biding his time until she slipped up and revealed something, finally giving him a foothold to rip the very deepest truths from her. “They were last seen astride a large, black horse headed in this direction,” he continued, “have you happened to come across any such travelers? Your quaint little cottage is one of the only domiciles in the area and you are known as a welcoming pitstop for many a passerby.” 

She pretended to search her memory while she answered him, “hmmm.. I do not believe so, Brother Young,” she dipped her head respectfully when she said his name, “I have had no visitors that I can recall since the miller’s boy came in with yet another broken bone nigh on a week ago. It was his wrist this time. I do wish that boy would be more careful…” she feigned losing herself in thought for a second before seeming to remember the red brother was standing there and snapping her full attention back to him. Suddenly, she widened her eyes as if an urgent thought had just come to her, “do you believe them to be dangerous, these fugitives?” 

“Quite. That is why it is imperative that we locate them and bring them into our custody as soon as possible.” Brother Young’s honey brown eyes seemed to search her very soul for untruths and Emma sent silent prayers to The Hidden that he would find none. “Do not worry, my dear,” he answered her fraudulent expression of fear, (was he being sincere or just playing along with her?) “I have dozens of men scouring the woods, and a handful of brothers checking every nook of your barn at this very moment in case they decided to conceal themselves within.” His thin lips quirked upward in a small smile which she was sure he thought to be reassuring, but in reality was like a slapping a grin on an adder. It took all of Emma’s self-control to suppress the shiver that threatened to run through her. 

“Well, if the brothers could conduct their search without tearing down my entire home I would be very grateful,” she replied calmly. “In the meantime can I offer you anything? Tea? An early breakfast if my kitchen is intact?” 

“Oh no, but I thank you for the courtesy. I will continue to await my brothers outside. I bid you a good day, madam healer, and again I apologize for the inconvenient hour.” He sounded anything but apologetic but Emma nodded cordially at him as he turned and disappeared from her doorway. 

She couldn’t help but to breathe a small sigh of relief as soon as he was out of ear shot before she rounded on the other four Paladins still absolutely wrecking her space. She picked up a sewing basket they’d dumped and waved it at them impatiently, “Are you lot almost finished, or do you really think I’m hiding a man, a boy, and a horse in my sewing things? It’s a small house, in case you haven’t noticed, and I’m sure you’ve looked at every inch of it by now.”

“Hush, witch, let us do our job.” Snarled one of the brothers she recognized as Saarthis.

“‘Witch’ you name me and yet you visit me monthly for your wife’s tincture!” She snapped at him, “in fact, I had been expecting you before the week was out and,” moving across the main room she flipped over a now busted cabinet and rummaged through the mess of broken glass and spilled contents, “if you lot haven’t broken it, I have her tincture ready to go.” Fortune smiled upon her as she found the little brown bottle unharmed. She held it out to the chastened monk, “this month it’s on the house. As recompense for you having to put in all this effort at such an unholy hour.” He took it and had the sense to looked slightly apologetic before turning to his brothers, 

“I think we have taken up enough of the madam healer’s time, brothers, the fugitives are not here. Let us move on before dawn betrays us.” He nodded at Emma once more and walked out of the house. Two more red cloaked figures followed (Brother Ronan also shot her a sheepish glance as he passed her) and they were gone. 

She almost forgot about the fourth until she heard movement in her bedroom. “Hello? Sir Paladin? Your brothers are getting ready to leave, they are waiting for you in the yard.” Her footsteps were the only sound as she passed the threshold of the darkened room. A gut instinct told her something was wrong and she was suddenly uneasy and regretted her decision to walk in here at all. With an unpleasant jolt she realized she'd left her knife in her apron hanging on a chair in another room. Stupid. “Sir Paladin? Hello? Whe-“ her question was cut short as she was slammed bodily against the wall, a large, calloused hand curled around her throat. 

“You don’t fool me, witch,” a deep voice spat and she was momentarily overwhelmed by the stench of stale spirits. Shit.

“What are you doing?!” she croaked and kicked out viciously with her legs. In response the hand tightened on her windpipe until she couldn’t even swallow. Her small fingers scrabbled against his thick ones, ineffectively trying to pry them loose. Grinning a horrible grin, he lifted her by her neck and threw her violently to the floor, knocking all remaining breath out of her lungs. Her chest heaved as her lungs worked desperately to fill and she looked up at him, the fear in her eyes now very real. He was a huge man, towering over her like a dreadful nightmare. As soon as she could draw a breath she began to scramble backwards trying as hard as she could to get away. He smiled at her evilly, “I’m going to rip you to pieces, you little witch, but not before I get mine.” His eyes roamed down her body and Emma’s state of panic reached a fever pitch. 

“No.. nonononononononono,” she repeated the word to herself in horrified disbelief as she continued to try and push herself toward the exit. This can’t be happening. His arm reared back and a fist slammed into the side of her head. She saw stars. 

“Shut up,” he rasped as he yanked her back to him by her ankle like she was a ragdoll. “Shut the fuck up you little whore.” The stench of stale spirits was all around her and she realized he’d gotten down on his hands and knees on top of her. She fought like a wild thing, and her punches and scratches landed well, but she could have been attacking a stone wall for all the effect it was having on him. He only laughed at her and seized her flailing arms, pinning them above her head in a vice grip. He was so strong, too strong. His knees dug painfully into her thighs as he forced her legs to part and secured them under his weight. She was pinned. 

“I’ll fucking kill you, I’ll fucking kILL YOU, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU,” she yelled over and over as she continued to squirm and writhe in desperation. His free hand punched her hard in the gut and then twice in the face to shut her up before it began pawing at her chest and ripping her dress. She tasted blood and spit it in his face, “you bastard! You ugly fucking bastard! Get the fuck off of me!” 

“Shut UP!” The man roared at her and smashed her in the face again with that boulder sized fist of his. White light exploded behind her eyes and she was having trouble focusing. He took advantage of her dazed state to reach down and yank up the hem of her dress, a loathsome, meaty hand running up her inner thigh. She could only whine piteously in response. 

“no.. please no….” Tears fell freely from her eyes and she could hear his ragged breathing quicken with excitement when his fingers finally landed upon their prize. He made a despicable sound in his victory and, after a few moments of fumbling exploration, he removed his hand to undo his breeches. Emma squeezed her eyes shut and continued to try and fight him but it was no use, he really had her. She concentrated on her breathing, her mind collapsing in on itself and leaving her defeated body to fend for itself. She could feel him moving closer, getting ready…. 

“What is this?” A velvety voice broke through her panic and her eyes flew open. Brother Young was standing in the doorway to the bedroom taking in the scene with what looked like genuine disgust. “Brother Thatcher you will unhand the young lady at once.” Emma caught sight of Brother Thatcher’s face hovering above her’s and she didn’t think she’d ever seen such hatred and anger. Still he let her go, stood up, redid his breeches, and fixed his cloak. “Meet me outside, we will discuss this further in a moment.” Brother Young’s voice was silky like venom. 

Emma sat up and stared uncomprehendingly at the remaining Paladin. His voice flattened out as he spoke to her, “Apologies again, madam healer, no one is immune to the temptations of sin, my own holy brothers included. I will speak with him. Are you unharmed?” 

Her eyes narrowed but she answered him politely, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I will be fine, sir.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” His feigned concern was exhausting. 

“No, sir. And if there is nothing else I can do for you, I would appreciate it if you and your paladins removed yourselves from my property immediately.” Emma spoke to him from the floor, she didn’t trust herself to stand. 

Brother Young looked down on her like one might look at a nasty bug you’re not allowed to harm. “Of course, madam healer, we will be on our way at once. I will speak with Brother Thatcher, this will not happen again.” His eyes flashed, “good day to you, madam.” And he was gone. 

Emma threw up immediately and collapsed back down onto the floor, her body shaking so hard her teeth clacked together. She began to hyperventilate and then to choke on the sobs racking her lungs. Hugging her arms to herself she lay in a puddle of her own tears rocking back and forth for what felt like hours. Finally her breathing slowed and she became aware of her surroundings again. Everything was a mess, her room, her bed, her clothing, her belongings, her… all torn apart and scattered. What the fuck just happened? No, better to not think about it now. She had things to do if only she could remember what they were… the sun was up, when had the sun come up? She shoved all of the raw emotion and fresh trauma into a box in her mind and slammed the lid shut. Cannot deal with that now, must deal with it later, no time, there’s something pressing, what is it? Another hour passed and she still hadn’t moved. Thoughts leaked from her battered mind like liquid from a cracked mug and she had been staring blankly at the corner of her dresser for an unmeasured amount of time. Suddenly it hit her - Squirrel! Sweet Squirrel. She had to check on Squirrel. This provided the motivation she needed to finally stand. Her legs wobbled dangerously and threatened to drop out from under her but she gritted her teeth and demanded her body to obey. Deep breath. She walked to a basin of water that had somehow been left upright and splashed the refreshingly cold water on her face. Blood dripped into the basin reminding her that she probably looked like shit. She did her best to clean herself up so she wouldn’t frighten the boy before heading to the trap door.

She descended slowly, her legs still feeling like they weren’t completely under her control. Lancelot was sitting straight as an arrow on the edge of Squirrel’s bed waiting for her. The boy’s head was in his lap and he was fast asleep. When Lancelot saw Emma his normally infallible control over his features slipped and his face was aghast. She really must look bad. Shit. 

“They’ve gone but I’m sure they’re watching the house so you both should stay underground for now.” Her voice was weak and scratchy, it surprised her how much it hurt to talk. “Are you two okay?” she asked him. Why was talking so painful? She should make some tea. 

Lancelot ignored her question and his whispery voice broke into her meandering thoughts, “what happened, Emma?” She liked his whispery voice. His posture was so tense he was almost vibrating, why was he so tense? Oh right, Red Paladins had come. Her gut twisted painfully when she thought about them. Better to focus on Lancelot instead. His weeping eyes were fixed on her, a look of true concern written plainly for her to see. 

She shrugged, “they didn’t believe me,” was all she said. She didn’t want to say any more. She didn’t want to think about anything more. She noticed his hand had absentmindedly started stroking Squirrel’s hair as the boy slept on in his lap. Indicating the boy with a nod of her head she asked, “did he wake up?” 

Lancelot hesitated briefly before replying, “yes.” His eyes searched her face. What was he looking for? 

Her stomach dropped at her next thought, “he heard.” 

“Yes.”

“But he went back to sleep.” 

“Yes.” 

Emma swallowed painfully and her mind fuzzed out. What were they talking about again? She felt drunk and almost giddy all of a sudden. 

The monk gently slid the sleeping boy’s head off of his lap and onto a pillow before he stood stiffly and started toward her. She balked and suddenly found that she’d backed herself into a shelf without realizing she’d moved at all. Who was in charge of these legs anyway? A rogue giggle bubbled up for a moment and then she choked out a sob. Lancelot’s expression darkened and he held his hands out in a yielding gesture as he continued toward her slowly. She was hardly paying him attention anymore as her control started to slip and she began to shake again, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Abruptly he was there next to her, prying one of her hands from where it had been wrapped tight around her middle and grasping it securely between both of his. 

A whispery “Emma…” was the last thing she heard before staticky darkness stole her vision and she lost consciousness. 

*******

Lancelot had been listening intently to the goings on upstairs. He’d paid special attention to the exchange between Emma and the one called Brother Young. It felt to him like layers of unspoken intent were weaved through every spoken sentence. The Red Paladins were suspicious. They didn’t fully believe her, or at least this one didn’t. He had allowed himself a deep sigh of relief when he’d heard them leaving. He’d counted their steps: Brother Young, followed by one paladin, two paladin, three paladin… hadn’t there been one more? When he’d heard the continued shuffling at the other side of the house, and Emma’s footsteps moving toward it, he’d started to become anxious. Something wasn’t right. What came next nearly made him sick. From under the floorboards he’d listened to her struggle, to her screams, but the worst had been the pitiful whimpering near the end. It had taken every ounce of his discipline not to burst out of the shelter and gut every single one of his former brothers within a mile of this place. Percival had woken up when it started and he’d held the boy’s head tight to his chest, covering his ears and mouth to keep him quiet and still while trying to shield him from the worst of it. If he’d broken cover then, Percival would’ve certainly followed him into the fight and that was not an option. So he’d stayed put and listened and was filled with such a white hot hatred he was surprised he didn’t simply combust on the spot. Finally, after far too long, the steps of Brother Young returned and moved purposefully through the house to discover the scene of his brother’s disgrace. He’d heard their short exchange, and listened as two pairs of steps departed. Loosening his grip on Percival he’d put a finger to his lips to indicate that the boy should still be quiet and then strained his ears to the ceiling once more. Emma was choking, gasping, sobbing. He’d listened to it all, one hand absentmindedly stroking the young boy’s hair when the exhaustion had taken him once more and he’d drifted off with his head resting in Lancelot’s lap. Thus he waited. 

When the trap door finally opened and Emma had appeared at the foot of the ramp Lancelot’s breath hitched in his throat. Her face was bruised, swollen and bloodied, her dress was ripped to the point that it showed a good portion of her upper chest almost exposing her breasts, yet she seemed not to have noticed. Her gate was unsteady, her expression rapidly switching between acute pain and a blank daze. He instantly had wanted to go to her, to put his arms around her, to help her, but he resisted his impulse and continued to scrutinize her from across the room. She wasn’t altogether coherent but she was retaining a certain level of control, at least for a few minutes. It had hurt when she’d flinched and leapt away from him after he’d finally stood, but he appreciated that, for once, it wasn’t because of him personally. He was trying to move slowly, to get to her without frightening her further, when her eyes rolled and she began violently trembling. He’d barely made it in time to catch her as she fell. Now he looked at her, lying completely vulnerable in his arms, and had to work to suppress his murderous rage once more. He carried her to his bed, his own injuries forgotten, and placed her in it as gently as if she was made of thin glass. After covering her with the blanket he settled into a chair next to the bed and began to wait once again. Her face was relaxed and peaceful in sleep and he found himself moved to lightly push a stray bit of hair off her forehead and install it behind her ear. She sighed and curled toward him ever so slightly at the touch. The corner of Lancelot’s mouth twitched up almost imperceptibly and his eyes softened. He prepared to hold his silent vigil as long as was needed. Emma wouldn’t wake up alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, Emma! Everything will get better now, I promise. 😭

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read! I have no idea what I'm doing I just have it bad for everyone's favorite weepy boy.


End file.
